


Storm of the Heart

by braidedbootstraps



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, F/F, Female Relationships, I mean whats better than that, Mermaids, No Lesbians Die, Violence, angsty mermaid lesbians, clexa mermaid au, maybe kinda dramatic, mermaid lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-09 11:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12275889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braidedbootstraps/pseuds/braidedbootstraps
Summary: “Her people have killed hundreds of us, Clarke”“What about the thousands of their kind we’ve killed? How many thousands more will have to die before you can accept that I love her.”Clarke Griffin is a fisherwoman on the island of Darkmoor. Every morning she goes out at daybreak to feed her village at the risk of being eaten alive by the shoal of mermaids that cave off the coastline.One day there is a terrible attack that drives Clarke’s ship to shore, drowning most of her crew. Walking on the beach she comes across a mermaid, injured and stranded in a rockpool. Clarke tries to kill the strange and haunting creature but something stalls her hand.Lexa defies everything Clarke ever thought she knew about her kind, but she soons finds there is a price for mercy. Clarke will have to sacrifice her her heart in order to save her home. Clexa Mermaid AU, Femslash, mild Angst.





	1. a Black Scar

Lexa’s eyes looked like stones Clarke had seen as a child, resting under the shimmering green water in rock pools near the bay. 

Clarke had always wanted to be free. She realized that curled against Lexa, feeling the warmth deep within her cold skin, the way that here, together, they smelt of the salt and the earth. The things that humans were made of.

Clarke wished that her story could have started here, with Lexa. But it did not; her story began with Darkmoor and a thin, black scar.

\----------

The Griffins house on workday mornings was silent and grey. An old clock ticked on the mantelpiece and the remains of last night’s fire smoldered in the grate beneath it. A few seashells where lain on the table around a framed picture of Clarke's father. It was the only one they had.

Clarke had woken to the sound of moaning. Beneath the table downstairs, a young sailor whimpered in his sleep.   
Grimacing, Clarke sat up in bed and drew her blanket round herself, then treaded softly to the kitchen.  
The sailor lay on the floor and was wrapped in a green blanket from head to foot, his left leg left exposed to show four or three scars trailing along his calf. 

The cuts were deep and vicious. Spider-thread veins leading away from each were stained grey and each blackened gash wept pale blood. There was no mistaking what they were. 

Taking the kettle from the stove Clarke filled it with water and set it over the hob, reaching into a draw for matches. Cold, watery light entered through the windows set into the door and across the wall and cast gentle shadows over their scattered furniture. Death lived in their home like a memory. Clarke could feel in beginning to settle over the sailor, whose breathing had begun to slow.

The men that had carried the poor boy to their door yesterday evening said that he had been brave. They had lost three others, and six had been pulled under the waves. 

That was the risk of being a Darkmoor Fisherman. They hadn’t had a fishing trip as bad since the night they’d lost Clarke's father, and as they’d pulled the weeping boy onto the floor Clarkes stomach turned. She cringed to remember it now. 

Abby had looked grim, but had told the men what to do, barked at Clarke to fetch towels and water. She was a good medic, one of the best the Island had ever seen. She did everything she could for him and Clarke was proud. Proud and afraid. 

Their island home was surrounded by mermaids; creatures that were half human, half something else. Each time the boats went out for fish, half their numbers came back, most among them drowned, eaten or poisoned beyond help. Abby always did everything she could and Clarke tried, usually assigned to hold down, fasten, bathe or consol. Always, with every sailor that arrived at their door, Clarke felt the awful sense that she didn’t know what she was doing.

Clarke, however, wasn’t a medic. She was supposed to have been one. But Clarke’s father had gone and someone had to go out with the boats in his stead.

Clarke had packed her work bag with dried cod, sewing kit, spare rounds and an empty rifle and slung it over her shoulder. Abby was asleep in the next room, mumbling to herself as a she always did. Clarke knew not to wake her these days; the attacks were getting more frequent and it was rare now for either of them to get a full night’s rest. 

Once the kettle had whistled she poured out a bowlful and placed it with a clean cloth next to the sleeping sailor with a plate of dried fruit and some mackerel, lest he should wake before Abby. Then she made herself a bowl of meal and ate quickly as the sun rose higher.

Really, Abby needed her here. They’d fought about it, but there was nothing either of them could do. Clarkes father was gone and someone had to go to hunt. “I don’t just owe it to you.” Clarke had said. That had shut her mother up.

Darkmoor was a stretch of slate-rich soil in the North Pacific. The people here were as old as the grey hills on which they lived, and Clarke had lived there her whole life. They were stranded in the ocean, caved in by a treacherous sea and a deep fear. Clarke would be lying if she said she hadn’t ever wished to leave, even just once. But, where would she go? Where could she go.

\------------

The rock salt that had been thrown along the icy trail crunched beneath her feet. It had been a hard winter that was slowly giving way into a gentle spring. Clarke felt something in her give as the sunlight reached from over the grey hill to touch her skin. ‘Maybe the snowdrops will be here soon’ she thought to herself. 

Soon the harbour was within sight, the long narrow docks busy with crowds of sailors. She could see Bellamy on the Winged Hamartia, by far the most animated of any of them, shouting brief orders over the rabble to lay out the nets, tighten lifelines. 

Bellridge Harbour spanned half a mile of coastline and was overseen in part by the dockmasters, Bellamy being the youngest of them and the most stubborn.

Clarke breathed a little easier once she’d got onto the decking; these were the people she loved, who she risked her life for. She nodded to a few of fishermen that called out a greeting to her in Fen, an old Island form of the Elnar language seldom used by the younger inhabitants. The older ones however still spoke it; their strange clicking tongues and rounded words running over their conversations like surf upon the rocks. 

“Enough of that.” Clarke flinched as Bellamy interrupted her thoughts, striding towards her through the crowds. A girl trailed behind him, her walk as confident as his but her gait not as wide. Bellamy glared at the elders who quickly scurried away. 

Fen speakers were mistrusted on Darkmoor by the younger generations and regarded as backwards. It was something about the way Fen sounded so close to its sister language; the forked-tongue of merfolk. It seemed better to pretend that we held no relation to the flesh-devourers at all. 

Still, Clarke couldn’t help but like the elders. They held to what was important to them, even though everyone else seemed to have walked away. She even let Elder Thompson teach her a little of Fen, though never very much. This was something Bellamy didn’t know about, and something Clarke was happy to keep to herself.

Still, she smiled respectfully as the silenced Elder shuffled away from her. Bellamy approached. “Clarke” he murmured and put a hand behind the girl next to him. Clarke looked her over and saw the same soft, dark hair and sallow skin. 

“Octavia, I’m guessing?” she raised an eyebrow at her, and was met with almost sardonic apathy. Bellamy’s little sister had glassy eyes like his, but where his were still and hard hers were alive and willful. 

When Octavia failed to answer, Bellamy cleared his throat. “Yes. It’s her first day. I want you…”

“No.” Octavia interrupted. She swung her hair over her shoulder and glowered at her brother “You don’t want her to do anything. I don’t want to be babysat Bellamy, I’m not a child.” 

Turning on Clarke she folded her arms “Where’s your boat.”

Taken aback, Clarke opened and closed her mouth before managing to stammer “It… It’s the monarch's wing. Why?” 

Octavia grabbed a shoulder bag that Bellamy had been carrying and swung it over her shoulder roughly. Clarke looked back and forth between her and her brother, waiting for some sort of explanation. Incredulously, Bellamy looked embarrassed. 

“Urm… Clarke” he lowered his voice as Octavia marched away from them towards Clarke’s boat and Clarke began to piece together an unwelcome reality.

“Bell don’t do this to me.” She said quickly. She watched as Octavia swung her bag up on deck and lifted herself up after it, closely watched by fishermen that were busy preparing to leave. 

“You know it’s not up to me.” Bellamy replied stiffly, he’d straighten up and his face had become like stone. His eyes followed Octavia as she preceded to get in nearly everyone’s way whilst exploring and Clarke knew there was no use in arguing with him. “Just keep her safe.”

“She can’t possibly be ready for this.” Clarke muttered as Bellamy turned to leave. 

He paused. “None of us ever are.” Gulls cried out over the coast. There came a change in the air as the docks began to unload sailors into their boats. “Just keep her safe.”

Clarke nodded and Bellamy walked on. Clarke did not dislike him, exactly, but neither could she say that she felt anything like reverence. 

Bellamy had taken her father’s place when he’d died. It was that simple, but also just as complicated. The first assumption was that Clarke would have her father’s job, but she’d said then she didn’t want it. Then it turned out she had to go to sea anyway to make a living. Bellamy knew this and although neither of them held it against the other, the truth slid between them like a knife. 

A hand waved down as she stepped up to the boat and she took it, swinging herself up onto the deck of The monarch's wing. 

“Thanks…” she started, turning to see Ravens sardonic grin. “Oh my God.”

“You didn’t think I was going to let you on the The monarch by yourself did you?” Raven ducked out of Clarke’s one-armed hug and onto the rail.

Clarke rolled her eyes, barely keeping back laughter. “Doesn’t Finn need you today?” 

“Well yeah, I’m sure he does but he’d not getting me..” Ravens smirk earned her a shove in the arm, but not a particularly hard one. “Thought I’d tag along today, show you up.”

“In your dreams Reyes” Clarke countered. She was truly glad, relieved even, that raven was here. Raven never came down to docks as she nearly always kept busy with Finn at the warehouse. 

The women’s laughed died down for a moment as they reached the bow. Clarke stared out at the glassy water. Here in the shallows, the waves that reached the shore line fell silently, rocking the boat forward as if it begged to to be taken out to sea. 

“I’m sorry Clarke” Raven said softly “I’d have been here sooner if I could.” 

Out beyond the cove the water turned a darker grey, split by the white crests of waves. The roaring sea matched the gulls piercing cries and a higher, desperate sound. It was almost too thin to be heard, but too close to be ignored. A hundred sailors stared out into the horizon and listened. 

The mermaids were voices rising. They must reach the shoals before they did if they were to get anything that day. “It’s fine.” Clarke whispered back.

\----------

Each day since her father’s death she had gone out to work and come back alone. Raven appeared ghost-like whenever she could, but there were so many hours in between for work. Clarke hands shook as she tied knots and pulled nets, loaded guns and cleaned wounds. She waited for the end of each day like every breath was a mile. It wasn’t just the fear. Some of it was remembering. 

One dark day in February, Clarke’s father had gone out on a fishing trip and not come back. It had been brutal, few survivors limping back to the shore. That day had been Good Friday. That Monday, Clarke went out to work in his stead. She was supposed to have been an island medic, her mother’s replacement. 

Clarke turned her face skywards as a few raindrops fell onto her hair and shoulders. It was funny how things didn’t work out.

There came a shout to whey anchor and Raven squeezed her hand before disappearing into the crowds of sailors. Clarke turned to check on Octavia, who was leaning out over the rail expectantly with one hand on the rigging. Shaking her head she dropped her gun and made herself busy by loading it. 

She was one of five watchers on the boat, a weapon trained on the water at all times and one eye kept on the others. The men looked to her for safety. It was a job for fools and the desperate, but Clarke thought she could at least claim a part of the later group. 

There was no glory in killing Merfolk, no matter what Octavia or any of the island boys might think. There was only duty to the people at her back, and simple choice against starvation. Her hands shook as the boat as she slid each bullet into place, the boat pulling out to sea with the tide. 

She hated the merfolk as much as any of them and yet… as they broke the mounting waves her grip around her gun tightened and she wished again for the 100th time it was not hers to wield.


	2. A scream on the wind

On deck, the lamps had been lit early on account of a cold mist that had risen around them with the fading light. The paraffin flames reflected in growing pools of blood.

“Stay close to each other!” Clarke screamed. Gunshots echoed across the water, the sound lost on shrieking men and merfolk alike, the formers cry like the sound of ships breaking apart. They had been then some eight hours upon the sea. Clarke panted as she reloaded her gun and lifted it into her shoulder yet again. Right on time she aimed and fired at the starboard side railing where three or four arms tangled around a sailor, grappling for his life.

The shots had taken off one of the arms and left the others sliding back. Their skin shone like the surface of the water, alike to human limbs but for their webbed hands and blackened fingertips.

Around her was a nightmare. Men struggled between hoisting nets back on board and defending themselves from merfolk. Some nets came aboard only found to have mermaids clinging to them, or inside them. The mist and smoke from the continual gunfire made a haze of the deck. Clarke looked wildly around her, dragging her gun first in one direction and another.

It wouldn’t be long until she ran out of bullets, and when that happening she’d have only her knife. It was the kind they used to gut fish at the harbor; long, clean, and thin as a promise. She thought about reaching for it as one man staggered past her, clutching his face. Ragged with already blackening scars, one cheek was a ruin.

Clarke drew back from him in horror and for one moment squeezed her eyes shut, praying for the noise to disappear, with the boat and its men and assailants. Up at the bow, the toll of the bell began to ring out through the twilight.

That meant they were almost home. Clarke opened her eyes and swallowing her fear, charged towards a group of sailors battling against five or six mermaids. They had been set on pulling their cargo back into the water.

As she did so there was a shout above the many to get back and a sudden swell in the current knocked her from her feet. Clarke made to stand as the boat tilted to one side. As she did so a mermaid leaped in a high arch out of the water, the evening sun catching the bright glare of its fins. Its torso was ghost white and it’s amber hair long and matted. It fell forwards with a wave of water upon a boy and knocked him, gripped between webbed hands, overboard. His screams were brief.

More shouts filled the air as Clarke lay and breathed, groping for her gun. Her hands fumbled through a pool of watery blood. The sailor’s death went unnoted beyond the scattered shouts of fear and warning that preceded it. Clarke found that all her strength was slipping from her fast.

She found her feet, still swaying. It was a hideous attack, and she found herself searching now through the depleted crowds of men for faces that she recognized. A breath rushed out of her as she saw Raven clinging to the rigging, angling a long wooden shaft to knock merfolk off the sides of the boat. It was a dangerous position, but well out of the way of merfolks fanged mouths and clawed hands.

The sea air blew her hair back as she leaned into the ropes, shouting encouragement to the men at her back or damnations to her foes. Raven had a practicality that was inspiring to witness. Clarke breathed steadily when watching her, feeling again the weight of her weapon.

\-------------

The boat was a small one in comparison to many of their boats but of a high capacity and compact shape. It was one of their older ships too and the boards beneath Clarke's feet groaned as she ran from one end of it to the other.

A mermaid lunged out of the water, hissing, dark hair hung around its face. She hit it over the head with the butt of her gun and it fell back, slamming into the water. “We’re near home!” she shouted over the roar of the surf to the men she came across to join “We’ll lose them at the cove! Come on!”

And it was true; Clarke looked up to see the lights of the time piecing the fog before them and shadowy form of the bay. It was within reach, so exhaustingly, perilously near. They were soon upon the shallower waters, and by this time the mermaids had usually broken off. The thought scared her, but she hadn’t time to think about it.

The sailors around her, heartening, began to pull harder still at the nets and Clarke made to stop and help. Then, a cry above the rest made her turn back. Octavia Blake.

Her screams came higher across the ship, but they were no less fierce or mortifying than those of whom she faced. Clarke watched her stumbled backwards, lunging at a mer that had pulled itself up onto the rail. Twice it swung at her with its black claws and twice she barely swung out of its way.

Lifting the gun again to her shoulder Clarke aimed at the mermaid, her mouth dry. She waited, letting the thing get as close as she dared to Octavia. She meant to hit it at a better range, but then when she pulled the trigger… nothing.

Dropping the gun in a panic she remembered at once she was out of ammo. The mermaid was now too close to Octavia, who lunged desperately towards its reared and beautiful head. Clarke pulled a knife from the holder at her side and in a moment was sprinting towards her. She jumped a twitching body and nearly stumbled, the men she’d left behind her calling her back. Her breathing came ragged and her heart fumbled as she slashed outwards.

But she swung too late. The mermaid had an arm about Octavia, who at first struggled, trying to swing blows into its back. It screamed, and Clarke yelled at Octavia to get back from the rail. Octavia turned and caught her gaze blindly for one moment.

And then, she wasn’t there. The mermaid flung itself backwards and Octavia, arms at her throat, tripped. Both of them fell over the rail and there was the sound of their bodies hitting the water.

“NO!” Clarke flung herself against the rail and stared hopelessly at the murky green water that even now carried no light. There was only the flow of the tide and indistinct darker shapes beneath, which moved to and from the boat like flies to meat.

Clarke heard raven yell at her to get back but she could only look at the water, now at least beginning to shake. “Octavia!” she yelled. There was nothing in response, only the continued carnage and roaring water. Octavia Blake. Bellamy’s sister, who’d he’d entrusted to her. "Octavia!"

Bellamy would kill her.

“Clarke!” Clarke felt an arm on her shoulder and felt herself pulled roughly back from the edge “Clarke she’s gone.” Raven's face was like stone. Still, she did not let go of Clarke’s arm.

They were nearing harbor now and the mermaids cries were at last growing weaker as they fell back. Sailors lit great torches which they swung over the sides of the ship, sending those creatures that remained back into the sea. Their violent hissing was the sound of water hitting a hot iron. Nothing in the world a mermaid hated or feared more than fire, but with the dangers of a fire at sea, it was not until the last moment that the torches were lit. It signaled that the end was near.

Clarke realized that her hands were still shaking, and putting her knife back into its guard she nodded at Raven without quite meeting her eyes. The fish were being pulled in now and she went to go and help.

They might now reach shore without another attack, and their catch weighed, the wounded treated. She could think of no words to say to the men around her now. They too were silent, but for those that bemoaned over their injuries.

A single scratch from a mermaid's pointed nails could drive a man to madness; if too close to his heart or the number of wounds too great it would kill him. There were men, always, whose lives Clarke had saved who came to give her thanks. There were those too that she should have been there for but wasn’t, who, if conscious, would only come to look at her.

Today she hadn’t words for any of them. Collecting weapons and seeing to the wounded all she could think of was what she would say to Bellamy. Octavia was dead. There was no way she could have survived it. That knowledge alone made Clarke sick to her stomach.

Plenty of young islanders lost their lives on their first trip to sea, that was the cruel nature of it. The mermaids took no sympathy on anyone. Raven called to her again as they made port and tried to catch her eye but Clarke was part of the first crush of sailors off the boats and didn't stop.

\-------------

On any other day, Clarke would be among those finding food for the weary and helping to carry their stocks to the reserves. There were coarse blankets for the drenched and kind words for those gripping by the living nightmares. It was what her friends knew her for, but tonight, there were no words.

Clarke stumbled away across the beach away from the well-lit crowds, seeking for once the shelter of the dark. The tide lapped against the shingled beach as gently as always and at last, as the sun sunk below the clouds the water began to glow in the distance.

She remembered now, wearily, a time when she used to love the ocean. She would run to it against her mother's warnings and let the wind run a careless hand across her head. It was always bitterly cold on Darkmoor but the sea air and the smell of salt and sandalwood would always make her feel at home.

Now, at these hours the beach smelt of crowds and people and blood. Crates of fish hoisted away towards the stores, the town began to make its weary way homeward, eager for their beds and something to eat.

Tomorrow they would begin it all again. Here, a mile from the harbor, Clarke followed the line of beach and at last sat down on the stones. Pulling her knees into her chest she looked out at the water, which in this last light was still and beautiful. The water lapped at her feet. They would all think her a coward at home. They would think she couldn’t face Bellamy; someone must have told him by now.

They were right. She was a hopeless coward, but she hoped she might not be one, for a while. That she might not have to be Clarke Griffin, at least for a while. She still wanted to think of the right thing to say to Bell but was starting to realize she would never find the words.

It was then she heard a cry. It was faint but carried on the wind like a whisper. It didn’t seem too far away from her and she thought it might be an errant memory. Then the cry came again, a thin, wailing whimper that cut through her thoughts like a blade.

Clarke tensed, listening until she heard the sound a third time and got to her feet.

It seemed that were was no one around her. The cliffs mounted high at her back some thirty feet away and further back from the beach was a tangled mess of seaweed and fallen rock. Grimy pools of water collected in their formations, ringed by white splashes and shells.

Clarke thought, at last, there might be a chance that a sailor had fallen overboard and escaped. Being swept up by the tide and thrown against the rocks, they lay somewhere now injured. Making her way across the beach she kept one ear open for the sailor's cries and the other for those calling her back.

The light had turned dim and warm, the fog at last whispering away with the breeze. Clarke skidded over a boulder and came to a stop, her heart clenching in her chest.

There was a mermaid, still alive and a little way ahead of her trapped in a rockpool. It had the end of a wooden shaft in its tail which had snapped and then twisted. The tail twitched as all fish do when taken from water, and the woman, for it was female, leaned back against the rocks. Her dark mess of hair pulled back at the crown and she'd thrown out her bare arms to either side to support herself.

It was then the mermaid looked up, and Clarke’s eyes met hers. Something then seemed to leave her unable to move, to even breath. The mermaid's face was fierce and solemn, a muscle twitching in her jaw with pain. Her eyes were both shadowy and pale as the sea.

Clarke thought that far away, she could hear people calling out her name from the harbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few changes to the plot were made to accommodate this chapter and the story summary was changed accordingly. I want to thank you guys for reading and commenting, really makes my day


	3. Lines in the Sand

_Clarke remembered the time they’d brought a mermaid back from the shore. Flakes of snow drifted over the wind and settled in the long grass. Up the long and icy path from the ocean, two men worked to drag a body towards town, grunting as they went. People had wandered out of their homes into the January snow to watch as they went past._

__

_ She thought she must have been six or seven then, peering from between her mother's legs. The men held the body by its long and iridescent tale, the torso dragging along the ground.  _

__

_ The mermaid’s arms and white back were as pale as the new snow, discoloured by death. Greying bruises circled its shoulder blades. Its long, thin arms dragged behind its head past a tangled mess of coppery hair. Clarke had seen then the thread-thin braiding within it, how parts of it a mer had teased back. The ornaments in its wet curls placed with care. You couldn’t see its face.  _

Clarke looked into the mermaid's eyes, who stared back at her, for than a minute. She leant back on one arm, unable to turn her face away from the woman in front of her. Part of her wanted to run. Another felt the press of a cold knife still inside her boot. 

The mermaid looked nothing like the mermaid Clarke had seen that day on the shore. Neither though, did she look like the things they fought against at sea.  The muscles on her arms flexed as she pushed herself further out of the water, away from Clarke, and her powerful tail gleamed as it moved . But away from the ocean, from the heat and terror of war, it was different. 

Here, Clarke saw the way the mermaid's chest rose and fell beneath  tightly wrapped black and grey bandages . Made, she realized, from the torn clothes of sailors. This thought sent a bitterness through her that had her reaching for her knife. At the flash of steel the mermaid hissed and thrashed her tail. The knife was soon angled above Clarke’s head. 

The mermaid might lunge for her, but Clarke’s blade would be faster. It was then, pausing on the brink of death, that Clarke heard again what she thought she had heard moments ago. They were definitely calling her from the harbour. She could hear Ravens voice, even her mother’s. 

If she brought them a dead mermaid, it would show them at least that she was not a coward. She raised the knife still higher, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the woman’s. Her eyes followed Clarke, watching always the angle of the knife, but with her arms still spread about her. She’d made no move to cover her chest, nor turn her face away from death. 

Clarke realized then, looking at her, that she had no fear.  Her breathing came fast and showed at the pulse in her neck, but more she suspected from the wound that was now bleeding  heavily into the rockpool . Rather than sink into the darkening water she met Clarke’s eyes, and waited. Clarke found her hand was trembling.

She wondered how many of the mermaids kind she had killed. Close to fifty, or less. She’d never killed like this. She breathed  slowly , feeling at once the well worn grip of her knife. It couldn’t be so different to killing in war, and yet…

She hadn’t known before that merfolk could breath on land, that they could bleed this way. Never had one looked her in the face, and never had she seen one that looked like her. Her stomach churned; the steel fell slack in her hand. She lowered it lest she drop it, and the mermaid’s eyes widened. 

Clarke heard her name called louder from the beach and she dropped into a crouch. A creeping panic was beginning to take hold. She couldn’t kill the mermaid. At least, not like this. They would find her soon and somehow… she didn’t want them to know about the mermaid yet. Not  just to hide her cowardice, but there was something about her. 

Clarke knew as she dragged her eyes again over the mermaid’s terrifying, beautiful form. She couldn’t kill her. There was more to the writhing creature than a monster. 

Examining the situation, she opened her mouth without quite deciding on her words. “A...are you..” she tried again “Do you speak..english?”

The mermaid's head was lain back against a rock, and she regarded Clarke through narrowed eyes. The look made Clarke shiver. 

“Yes….” she pushed the word out  slowly , as though unused to it. Clarke thought she could hear a hesitation behind her words alike her own. 

Ripping off her jacket she thrust it towards the woman and indicated for her to put it around herself. It was all she had, and but was no time.  She thought the woman looked pale and noticing how the dark the water had become around her, realized that she was going into shock .

“Put it round you” she stumbled out. She would have to leave her here. And if she died… Clarke felt a queer pull in her chest. Everything she was doing was wrong. It broke every island rule.

The mermaid pulled the jacket over her shoulders but would not put her arms in the sleeves. She still glared at Clarke, but her gaze was not as hostile as it had been. Clarke thought she saw confusion as well behind her apathy. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” Clarke said  quickly , getting to her feet. “..For my jacket.” She lingered a moment, trying to think of what else to say, but the mermaids look told her to go. 

She turned to lift herself back over the rocks and she heard the mermaid groan. “Thank you…” 

It was  barely a whisper. Clarke turned then and dropped back onto the beach, beginning to run in the direction of the lights. 

“I’m here!” she shouted, waving her arm. In her chest, her heart hammered louder than the roaring waves.

 

\-------------

“He’s in here” The door to the main audience chamber opened for them as Raven lead her though.  She glanced kindly over her shoulder and Clarke managed a smile, tugging the sleeves of her shirt down to her wrists . She already felt frozen to the bone having sacrificed her jacket, but she couldn’t go to bed yet.

Inside the chamber a great fire had been lit in the centre, the smoke making a haze of the faces collected around it. Every elder, dock master and fisherman was here. Pots of meal and fish stew hung across the flames and added the collected smells of the room. The confusion heightened by the hundreds of raised voices. 

Children cried in corners where their older siblings minded them.  The scuff of boots and the clamour of familiar greetings raised Clarke’s spirits a little, but there were those who regarded her  uneasily as well . Since her father’s death Clarke was always welcomed to the council meetings. She was a prominent fisherwoman and the daughter of a well beloved leader. It felt right to have her voice added to the many that debated the activities of the village. 

Still, there were those that saw her as too inexperienced, too young. The number of wary glances tonight seemed greater than ever. Clarke swallowed, and stepped forward into the mass to wait her turn for a bowl of stew, and a place by the fire. Raven stood close to her and joked with the sailors that would pass a remark to either of them. 

It was then that a voice cut through the noise. “Clarke Griffin will approach the stand.”

A hush fell upon the crowd. Clarke took a steadying breath and turned to face Bellamy. He stood on the other side of the fire pit, his hands clasped behind his back. The look her gave her was impassive. Even in the crowded heat, Clarke went cold to meet his eyes. She meant to approach the fire apart from the others, but in the crowded hall this would not be possible. Still, those around her pressed backwards, giving her some distance.

Straightening, Clarke cleared her throat “I stand, and acknowledge Master Blake.”

A murmur went through the room, but was again silenced by Bellamy’s next words. “You had charge of Octavia Blake, apprentice fisherwoman, on this day at dawn.” He grimaced, clenching and unclenching his hands. “...she fell.  _ What say you _ .”

Clarke wanted to run. She felt every pair of eyes upon her and if not for duty, for dignity she thought she would have curled up on the floor. She could see Octavia’s face from the morning. She had looked exited, Bellamy bashful and afraid. Now, he was only questioning. Angry. She could feel it reaching across the room towards her, through the crackling flames. 

“I say…” she hesitated, pulling together her thoughts. “I say that Octavia Blake came aboard  The Monarch's Wing at dawn. She proceeded with her duties, as I did with mine. She worked…  tolerably with the other sailors, but showed great strength of character. She fought well…” here she at last met Bellamy's eyes. “At the last hour, she entered single combat with a mer, who made to overpower her. I attempted to save her life, but was at the time of attack on the other side of the ship-”

“And why were you on the other side of the ship?” Bell interrupted. His eyes were low and dark. A more agitated murmur preceded his words; it was against custom to interrupt a sailor in defence. Bellamy didn’t seem to notice. 

“I… I was doing my job” Clarke replied

“Your job was to protect Octavia.” Bellamy spat. At this, an elder dock master put his hand to Bellamy’s shoulder. He seemed to be shaking, the smoke from the fire masking his face. Clarke treaded on the spot, but held herself well as she could muster. 

After a pause, the elder dockmaster turned to her. “Clarke Griffin, you're notified of a first warning. As watcher it is your duty to prioritise charge of apprentice sailors. But, the council recognises the extent of the assault  The Monarch's Wing faced today. You're excused from disciplinary training.”

Clarke nodded, and the debate concluded. Cries rose from the spectators both in her defence and against it.  After staying a minute to hear questions raised on the rising severity of mer attacks, she found she could take no more . The smoke came too much into her throat and eyes. The crowds that  normally felt a second home to her felt strange.

She remembered as well what had happened on the beach, how she had betrayed them. How she was betraying them, even now. 

At last finding her mother on the outskirts of the hall Clarke said goodbye to Raven and excused herself, leaning on Abby’s arm as they headed home .

 

\-----------------

Outside of the audience chamber the night air felt crisp and clear.  Abby questioned her of course on the loss of her jacket, but she said only that she’d left it on board, and would fetch it tomorrow . She found she couldn’t bear to listen to her mother's questions that night. The stars above her were distant and bright, as beautiful as a northern sea. She thought about the mermaid that lay hidden on the cove within the rocks. 

She wondered  bitterly if the cold night would bother her, or if deep within the arms of the sea merfolk lived in icy darkness . She wondered if she saw the stars tonight, too. Tears came then to her eyes, and though Abby put her arm around her it felt as if nothing could drive out the cold. 

Fear and anger pushed her into her sleep. The sailor that had lain beneath their kitchen table that morning was gone. As she lay still, Clarke thought that far away she could hear the anguished cried of merfolk, far out to sea. 

As her thoughts drifted she made up her mind. Tomorrow, she would have to kill the mermaid. If she could bear it. 


	4. Mortal Wounds

 

 “I’m writing you off”

 

 

 

“No.” Clarke lent forward from the bed as far as she could manage. A grinding headache was blurring her vision. The sheets around her felt  uncomfortably  close.  Eventually , she had to fall back against the pillows.

 

 

 

Abby only raised her eyebrows. “You can't help getting sick. It’s not serious-”

 

 

 

“If it’s not serious I can go to work”

 

 

 

“Not serious enough that I can leave you here, but you’re not going.” Here Abby Griffin fixed Clarke with an iron gaze. “Do I make myself clear?”

 

 

 

Clarke left a pause before  begrudgingly  giving an affirmative.

 

 

 

Abby patted Clarke's leg  absently  and got up from the end of her bed. She swayed a little as she stood. In the dim light of Clarke’s bedroom, she looked even less awake than usual. The hollows of her pinched eyes held long shadows. There was a nervous twitch to her left hand, resting on Clarke's knee.

 

 

 

Clarke watched her leave , listening for the sound of her mother’s steps on the stairs. When she was sure she was alone she threw back the covers. She felt like death. A stiffness had crept into her limbs overnight and the room swam before her as she tried to sit up. Not to mention a ringing headache. Managing at last to get up she retrieved her clothes from her chair and dressed for work.

 

 

 

But she didn’t mean to go to the docks. Or she meant to later, to help clean the fish brought in on the tide. To do what she had to do today, and to do it in secret, she would have to miss the boats.

 

 

 

As soon as Clarke’s feet hit the ground she started to run in the direction of the long grasses, keeping her head down. She knew her mother would be in the kitchen.  If she missed the sound of Clarke climbing down the drainpipe, she wasn’t likely to miss her running right past the kitchen window .

 

 

 

Her bag bounced  heavily  against her back. Diving into the cover of the grass Clarke bent down and waited, her heart racing. There was no movement from the house. After a moment or two Clarke slid down the incline, not daring to wait any longer. She landed on her feet and stood upright again, running in the direction of the harbor.

 

 

 

She felt sick and her stomach clenched  unpleasantly  the closer she came. Part of her knew it wasn’t  just  the illness. There was a mermaid waiting for her in the cove. Whether she would still be alive, Clarke had no idea. Grimacing, she pulled her bag still closer to her and picked up her pace.

 

...............................

 

 

 

 

Clarke could smell blood in the air.  She come around the back of the docks away from her usually path to be safe, but even so it had been an effort to get past the harbor unseen  . The boats had already left by the time she got there, but the market sellers and elders still lingered.  Heading left along the beach in the direction she had gone last night, Clarke had to go around the rocks, and for most of the way on her stomach .

 

 

 

She'd thought she’d have another ten yards or so to navigate before she smelt it, and then wondered how she hadn’t smelt it before . Feeling sick, she crawled over the nearest cluster of rocks. Her breath caught in her throat.

 

 

 

She'd tried to move.

 

 

 

The rocks nearest to the pool of water she’d been lying in were dark with dried blood. The water itself was murky and rust-colored and, she realized, the source of the smell. Birds pecked at the crevices in the stone. Four or six of them had landed around the rock pool, looking for food.

 

 

 

The mermaid was fifteen feet away, lying flat on the rock.  Her savaged tail lay in a smaller pool of water, not enough to submerge it but enough, Clarke supposed, to keep it functional . She saw the mermaids back rise and fall with labored breathing, and something in her gave. She didn’t know what it was, but in a moment she was running towards the mermaid as fast as she could in a crouch.

 

 

 

Her head turned and she watched Clarke approach her with narrowed eyes. Her arms, clean before, were now streaked with blood and dirt.  As Clarke came nearer she pushed herself up on them, somewhat  awkwardly  but well enough that she could look Clarke in the eye . Clarke could have sworn there was something lie relief hidden beneath her dignity.

 

 

 

Still, Clarke saw how her arms shook. It was something of a miracle that she’d made it this far at all. But she wasn’t dead. That was all Clarke had to focus on.

 

 

 

“Hey…” Clarke slowed, putting up her hands  cautiously  towards the mermaid. “I’m sorry, I… I was going to come back sooner.”

 

 

 

The mermaid blinked, keeping her eyes on Clarke, and then Clarke’s bag as she shrugged it off her shoulders. Clarke found then that she had to kneel. The run from the house had made her feel as thin as the tide. Praying that she wouldn’t faint, she looked up again into the eyes of the mermaid… who was watching her. There was a knot between her brows and her mouth opened a little.

 

 

 

After a pause, she stated “you’re sick.”

 

 

 

Her voice left Clarke wondering if she hadn’t  really  heard her the night before. The uncertainty had gone. Her voice was thick and dark with strange vowels but, she realized, was not so different from her own. It was an elders voice, but the mermaid was no elder. She couldn’t be older than Clarke herself.

 

 

 

It was the voice of Elnar; of its sister tongue. Mer language.

 

 

 

Clarke opened and closed her mouth once, before managing to stammer “I...yes.” The mermaid’s gaze was making her uncomfortable, and she turned to tip out the contents of her rucksack.

 

 

 

Inside was a brown paper parcel, a medic kit (which Abby would almost  certainly  notice was missing), and a crocheted blanket . There was no weapon. Clarke shifted on the spot, feeling the coil of rope she’d wrapped around her middle beneath her shirt. She could have sworn she felt it tightening around her.

 

 

 

The mermaid ran her eyes over this display. “Whats this?” she said again. She’d leant by this time against one of her arms, her long hair falling in a dark wave across her shoulder.

 

 

 

Clarke took up the parcel first. Using her thumbnail to snap the thin rope she’d wrapped around it, she unfolded the creased paper. The fish was still warm from the bag. She’d picked out a mackerel from their larder, and tipped it with some fruit and grains into a paper bag.

 

 

 

She’d thought then if the mermaid was dead it would serve her a breakfast, but the last thing she felt like doing now was eating . “This is for you.” she muttered, holding the parcel out for her.

 

 

 

There was a quiet pause before the mermaid leaned forward and sniffed at the fish.  Putting all her weight onto her arm she reached out with the other and with surprising gentleness took the fish from Clarke . Their hands touched underneath the paper for a moment, and Clarke drew her fingers away.

 

 

 

The mermaid’s hands had been cold, but soft. The drag of her thin dark nails had sent a shiver down Clarke’s spine.

 

 

 

She sat back on her haunches and watched as the mermaid picked her her meal. She turned the grain and fruit aside, but pulled the fish apart in moments. Clarke felt that same something in her pull at her chest to watch the mermaid eat. She’d always imagined the mermaid to eat only with their mouths, tearing at fish and human flesh alike. The mermaid in front of her ate  awkwardly , as she expected, and with her hands, yet like anyone else Clarke knew. She ate like someone starving.

 

 

 

“What’s your name?” Clarke asked. The words were out of her before she’d even thought about them. Before she could chastise herself over them the mermaid had met her eyes again. She regarded Clarke a moment before replying. “..Lexa.”

 

 

 

Clarke smiled . The name was human, or what she’d thought was human. She wasn’t so sure now. “Clarke” she said in response and Lexa nodded, chewing on her fish.

 

 

 

There was a tradition on Darkmoor as old as the hills that a condemned man should have their last meal. Their last words heard and last breath felt. Clarke didn’t know why she thought of it now, but knew she never should have asked for Lexa’s name.

 

 

 

“You should eat the vegetables.” she mumbled, but Lexa only shook her head.

 

 

 

“I cannot. We…” she looked down the length of her tail, glimmering beneath the water. “We cannot eat these things. They’re not of the sea.”

 

 

 

Clarke could think of nothing to say to this, but yet… there was no reason for the mermaid to lie. At least not about this.

 

 

 

“...I never knew that.” she replied at last, sitting cross legged by Lexa’s arm. She was fingering the medical kit with one hand and Lexa knew it well, but neither of them seemed willing to bring it up.

 

 

 

Clarke supposed Lexa wouldn’t have seen one before. She thought she might  just  as well shove the medical kit back into her rucksack and make a poor excuse. She might as well, and should, let Lexa die.

 

 

 

Lexa met her gaze and very  nearly  smiled, for half a moment. There was a flake of fish stuck to the corner of her mouth. Clarke couldn’t help but almost smile back.

 

 

 

It was one of those moments that changes an hour, a day, beyond what it could have been. Beyond help. Clarke took a deep breath, and dragged the medical kit towards her. “Let me treat you.”

 

.........................

 

 

 

 

In the end, Clarke had been sick, but at least not on Lexa. They’d been there an hour, and Lexa’s wounds were worse than Clarke had thought.  After helping her turn around, (Her arm under Lexa’s damp, cold shoulder, trying not to gag on the smell of blood and grime, face burning) Lexa had not let her touch her tail .

 

 

 

Every time Clarke’s hand got close, the tail flashed away from her, spraying the rocks and Clarke with water.  Lexa would groan out muted apologies, with every attempt her breath growing more ragged  . It was as much a reflex as a repulsion to Clarke's touch, but with every movement her wounds wept more  heavily .

 

 

 

At last, Clarke had to talk Lexa into letting her give her an anaesthetic.

 

 

 

It was only after the mermaid had passed out, Clarke had stopped to breathe for a minute… and realized how much her own illness had caught up with her . Staggering to her feet she made a dash for the rock pool behind Lexa’s.

 

.......................

 

 

 

 

“...I hate you so much.”

 

 

 

Clarke lifted Lexa’s tail onto her shoulder and dragged it further to the left. Lexa’s limp body moved with it. Clarke felt some shingle skid beneath her bare feet and swore if she fell one more time, she’d leave Lexa out here.

 

 

 

She’d been muttering to herself more than her companion but threw a look across her shoulder. “I hate you. I should have left you to die. I should have fucking left you to die.”

 

 

 

She’d been attempting to carry for Lexa across the beach, but around the back of the rocks, out of sight of the harbour. To what end she had no idea, but Lexa couldn’t have stayed in the contaminated water any longer. What she needed was a body of water, not far away or difficult to reach, but well out of sight of….people.

 

 

 

Dropping Lexa with an unceremonious thud, she reached, panting, for her flask of water she’d strapped to her side . Lexa weighed as much as human woman and then some, not to mention her scales were slippery and cold as ice. Clarke had been tipping water over them every ten minutes. Something uneasy told her she didn’t want to know what would happen if Lexa dried out.

 

 

 

As she drank she heard a soft moan and glanced over Lexa’s form, which had began to move. Rivulets of sand fell away from their gathered dunes as she stirred.  Clarke saw the way sand clung to Lexa’s face and arms and eyes and thought  flinchingly  that she might have been more gentle . Already the mermaids brow was creasing into its usual frown. Clarke almost wanted to find another anesthetic.

 

 

 

A crash of wood against stone jarred her thoughts and she dropped her water flask. It’s contents drenched Lexa and bounced off her curled arm.

 

 

 

Clarke willed herself to breathe slow. Every limb in her body was humming with a nervous energy she didn’t know what to do with. Somebody was there. Someone was there and she didn’t know what to do.

 

 

 

The man sauntered around the rock. He was an elder, one of the smaller, younger ones. His thin hands were swollen around a bottle of ale. Clarke smelt a strong change in the air and thought it might be something stronger than ale.

 

 

 

But, he hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t seen Lexa. He stumbled forward a step, five feet from where Lexa lay. By the arrangement of rocks, he seemed oblivious then to her presence. Against a cold feeling that was curling in her stomach, Clarke rushed forwards.

 

 

 

“Hey, let me help you…” she began, but he lunged forward to grab her arm. The man’s grip knocked the breath out of her words. He kept one grip on his bottle and the other on her, uncertain yet almost painful. He was drunk beyond belief.

 

 

 

Peering at her with watery eyes, he seemed to see something worth remembering. Clarke tried to look him in the face. “L...let go of me.”

 

 

 

She’d meant the words to come out stronger. The man only paused, and smiled at her in a hapless, leering way. He didn’t know her. His breath was close enough to touch Clarke’s cheek and it burned, tearing away the clearness of the air. He made a step towards her, his grip on her arm tightening. Clarke felt then that  suddenly , the man seemed far bigger than she was. That she’d made an awful mistake.

 

 

 

She opened her mouth to speak again, her hands beginning to shake. But, she saw a shadow behind them, only from the corner of her eye.

 

 

 

Lexa’s arm wrapped around the man’s throat and pulled. He gave a strangled yell; Clarke screamed. Lexa yanked the man back, away from Clarke to where she’d propped herself against a rock. For a moment, Clarke saw in Lexa a thing of nightmares. A shadow had fallen across her face. Her eyes flashed  darkly .

 

 

 

Clarke remembered her open mouth, the words she couldn’t find. “Lexa..”

 

 

 

Lexa’s nails split the man’s throat like silk. Blood burst forth from his wound to soak into his shirt and the sands beneath him. Clarke wailed, but only for a moment, choking on the sound.

 

 

 

Her hands flew to her mouth, whimpering as she watched in horror. Her would-be-assailant twitched and stilled, where Lexa let him fall.

 

 

 

She’d seen a murder of an islander. The murder of a man who might’ve killed them both.

 

 

 

..A murder she helped commit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words to say except that I am so sorry about how horrifically late this is.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: first draft. Any comments or criticisms are greatly appreciated!


End file.
